


Meeting of Minds

by small_secret



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Dark Will, Developing Relationship, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Content, Not A Fix-It, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Hannibal, References to Suicide, Triggers, series: Of Hounds and Lionesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_secret/pseuds/small_secret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He found that Will Graham mirrored his empathy. He found that Clarice Starling mirrored his mind. Hannibal Lecter is going to keep them <i>both</i>. AU ending to <span class="u">Hannibal</span>. Prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/779104">Postcard</a>. (Medium Crossover; spoilers to book series, show canon up to 1x08.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lizzen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/gifts).



> I wouldn't exactly call this a fix-it ending to Hannibal, but this entire story is based on a kink prompt I titled [Postcard](http://archiveofourown.org/works/779104). 
> 
> Lizzen asked more about kidnapped Will and Clarice, and this was the very long result. 
> 
> There are spoilers for Hannibal though the plot diverges at the end. This chapter focuses on Will dealing with Clarice. Clarice? Misses her gun. Hannigram to be more present in later chapters. I promise.

They're introduced to each other by Freddie Lounds long before they actually _met_.

The focus on Graham's professional and eventual private life had been a near obsession for Ms. Lounds, after all he had been something of a spectacle. Not that Lounds could ever pin on anything substantial on Will's private life beyond his more public affair with Dr. Alana Bloom, but there was enough to read between the lines. She had all but pushed the boundaries uncomfortably close after Lecter had gutted him, after he shot ten rounds and struck Lecter twice. However, it was the Dolarhyde affair and the second subsequent scarring across his brow, cheek, and nose that brought Will Graham to a young University of Virginia graduate's attention during her time in the Forensic Fellowship.

Poor Ms. Lounds had lost her meal ticket, so the idea went. Sure, a million psychopaths were out there, but no more psychopaths were chasing after them for the FBI. Not until the Gumb incident came along with one of Freddie's informants. Agent Starling never quite so much rose to the occasion as Graham had verbally, but as was her style, Clarice Starling preferred action to words. Lounds had lost equipment on the night Starling found a head in the late Raspail's car and Lounds decided she would never let Starling forget.

Will Graham had been too drunk to give a shit.

Five months after Gumb's death, Graham would eventually read the archives of the Tattler on a borrowed Samsung tablet with his face behind bandages. A 'Dr. Tomas Fell' by his side, face changed just enough not to be recognizable but high cheek bones and maroon eyes just the same. They were both recovering from plastic surgery in Sao Paulo.

Graham and Starling wouldn't meet face to face for another three years.

**

Will heard the footsteps first, alien on the terracotta tiled floor in the villa.

They were slow, uncertain, and he suddenly became wary. Will carefully lowered his book to see a woman standing at the landing of the living room with her hand braced on the wall, head tipped and studying him with a bleary expression on her face. He was only self conscious for a moment, knowing the woman had been given a large dose of pain killers.

He hadn't gotten a good chance to see her the night before when she was brought home and into the guest room. She's tall and sickly pale, her deep auburn hair was elegantly braided.

"She shattered," Hannibal had explained later, after he had re-dressed the ballistic trauma wounds and tucked her into bed, "Not quite the way or how that I imagined. There was a considerable mess to clean up - both her and the bodies- but it was _exquisite_." The drugs, however, were not just for pain. They were simply to keep her disoriented until she had arrived at the villa that Will acquired some years back through various means; a wedding band and casket.

Will couldn't say he it had been the happiest few months of his life, but he imagined they were considerably worse for his aged bride. Pity, that. He imagined the next few weeks weren't going to be pleasant, either.

He only risked looking into her eyes to see if she was still drugged. Eyes were dilated but her breathing was relaxed and she was not in the state Hannibal assured she'd be in for the next day. She shouldn't be awake, much less walking. "Good morning," She slurred the words and and then she _focused_ for a moment. She tilted her chip up and this time, her voice is clearer. "Where am I?"

The twang of her accent reminded Will of home, of the states, and he hardens himself. Towards her accent, towards the memories. "Europe," Will said in a tone as wary as her eyes are as he raised himself from the lounge, his book forgotten. "You're safe. Somewhere in Europe."

"Huh." The woman leaned against the wall, scrubbing her face with her right hand in an attempt to wake herself up. The short sleeves of her pajamas exposed medical tape and gauze on her left becip. "Dr. Lecter said... _oh_ ... oh goddamn. Did I call him that during the air trip, I don't-" She teetered then braced herself against the wall, suddenly drawing herself up as Will approached her as legs shook with the effort. "I don't remember lots of things. But he said somewhere in South America... I _think_."

"Hannibal told me you were an angel on the trip. If you weren't asleep, you were staring out the window." Will found it easier to study vibrant ripples of her hair as he warily explored her. Her body posture is the strongest indicator of her current mood, she's weary, exhausted, but too curious and frightened to not fight the effects of the drugs despite the pain and exhaustion painting lines on her body. She'll find of all the drugs that could have been used on her, simple opiates are the least harmful.

The woman merely nodded slowly at this explanation. "Oh... Okay... Could I have a coke or coffee then?" The smile was polite and _fake_ ; not to offend but to disarm and diffuse anything unpleasant. "I'm sorta sleepy and I could use the caffeine."

It was then that Clarice Starling's knees finally gave way.

* * *

It's a dog that Clarice Starling first meets the next morning and she is so relieved to see a _dog_.

A normal dog.

An old dog with white hairs that spot along his muzzle and seems very _content_ to be on his pillow to greet the sunrise. He lifted his head slowly as she approached him on bare feet before he allowed Clarice to pet his head and coo how handsome he was a kettle of water boils in the kitchen just beyond. It's the most normal gesture she recalled doing in a week.

It's been an eventful week.

Everything hangs by strings of memories in her head, even the times she wasn't drugged. Only a few moments stand out clear as day: Screaming of boars and her demanding to be given enough time to _find_ Mason Verger and shoot him dead and too-dark eyes. She recalled other things, faint smudges of memory. The burn of the bullet through her arm, hot tears of fury, and lights. Light tinged with numb pain and soft murmuring and _warmth_.

That last part had been _nice_. Terribly fucked up if she bothered to think about it. But nice on the surface.

The dog suddenly became more alert when he heard footsteps on the villa's tile. Akin to a walking stick the dog scrambled out of the cushion and away from the stranger with kind hands. Clarice, meanwhile, attempted to reach for the gun set her holster to only remember neither are there.

Her reward for her quick thinking and muscle memory was pain that flared down her injured arm. A cool breath was drawn in and she tried to suck down the pain. She heard a gentle voice saying, “Halt,” before it was followed by, "Come on, Wintson."

Clarice had a vague notion this was Will Graham, but vague notions had been paired with soft numbing pain and soothing hands that brushed and braided her hair. She didn't like vague notions.

The man who appeared from the hallway blinked in the sunshine of the living room. He had dark sloppy curls, stubble, and hints of gray betrayed his otherwise youthful appearance. The scars weren't as prominent as the Tattler pictures had shown a few years back, but faded remains of the hypertrophic scars still across his the strong cheek, terrifyingly close to his eye, the handsome nose, and over his brow. His appearance reminded Clarice of a puzzle picture; beautiful and time consuming but could easily fall apart.

It was Will Graham. Nothing vague at all.

Save for a quiet glance up, the completely ignored her until he reached one of the glass doors of the south facing living room to open the door for the dog and watched the squirming creature bound out. His eyes were still upon his dog when he said, "Hi."

Tone unreadable.

"Good morning... again." Clarice found herself saying as she watched him with keener eyes than she did yesterday, accent carefully controlled. "I'm... Agent Clarice Starling."

It's only when the words pass her lips she realizes she's not an agent anymore.

"Will Graham." He doesn't turn to her, hand resting on the wood frame of the door that leads outside. His shoulders were straight and his posture remained steady and poised, "Are you still looking for the coffee? We don't have any coke."

"I'm braving the French Press you've got in the kitchen in trying to make some. I was told I could go to the kitchen yesterday if I felt better," Clarice scrubbed her face with the right and was thankful for small favors. She had been shot in her left arm. She was right handed. "I was hoping for a coke but that makes sense. We're in Europe and I get the feeling Dr. Lecter isn't-"

She sucked in her breath as she watched a faint expression cross the older man's face that darken his handsome, youthful features; as if speaking Dr. Lecter's name reminded him he's tolerating her presence. It's a feeling she knew rather well from others."No," Graham quietly agreed, "Hannibal's not a big fan of cornstarch."

He said Dr. Lecter's name so casually that Clarice couldn't help but think this is going to be fucking _awkward_. "No, I'd imagine not," She began, "It became our bread and butter up in the mountains, unfortunately. It was Coke and Red Bull that got me through my places of education."

Graham took a breath then and began to turn towards Clarice as Winston padded through the door with old tail wagging. Graham gestured to her to follow, eyes still not meeting with her own. Strange, he held himself with a relaxed ease that was only hampered by morning sleepiness. He was very different from the man that Crawford mentioned to her - a man utterly broken by life and Dr. Lecter.

After she glanced down the sunny halls, as if looking for shadows that she's not quite ready to face, she followed the former profiler into the kitchen.

Clarice was surprised to see him walk over to the kettle of water, took a sniff, and systematically poured the near boiling water down the drain of the sink, "Trust me, I know you're about to kill me, but trust me." He doesn't turn to confirm if she is or isn't trying to kill him but Clarice reasoned he doesn't have to. He's an empath.

Graham went to the industrial style fridge, which looked sharply out of place in the soft roseness of the classic style Tuscan style kitchen and Clarice _froze_ as he began to open it. Despite the pain in her arm, she found her fingers cling desperately to the edge of a counter and her eyes were locked on the appliance. Fear bloomed icy and burned hot as it simply hit her what she has done.

She's agreed to run off with a _cannibal_ she's been haunted by for the last three years out of desperate fear. Out of the frying pan into the fryer.

"Agent Starling?”

Clarice took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on Graham's glasses. “I'm only getting out rosewater. Rosewater eliminates the need for sugar." Graham said as if speaking to a child. "I made it _myself_." His eyes on are on her hands that slowly unclench and fall to her sides, the left arm throbbing with pain of the movement. "Hey... look. Do you want to be level, Agent Starling? You're tense."A smile mirrored over Will's face, "You're not afraid, you know. Just ... confused and tense. Can I ask what happened the past couple of days?"

She doesn't speak right away but he seemed content to give her time to stew in silence. It also explains why he began a conversation with her, why he's being suddenly sociable. It's more of a notion, but if the doctor had told him everything, he wouldn't ask her. Unless if he was trying to hear two sides of a story. Or trying to shake her up.

She should have just killed Mason Verger and been done with it.

There's only been two men who were reasonably accurate about the emotions she hides. Mr. Crawford was always reasonably accurate on a level that was comfortable, on a level that was _fatherly_ until the Gumb case was over. And then that was it. So long, you're going to the CID to be a meat shield for two and a half years. _Enjoy_.

The other man had been Dr. Lecter. He tore a mind open and dragged out what he found _interesting_ , relishing your denial or feeble attempt to explain what he found. The stories that Mr. Crawford and Beverly Katz had told her about Graham described him as accidentally tipping your soul over and reading the contents while you both wept on the inside.

Clarice watched Graham quietly measure out whole beans from a porcelain canister and crushed them with quiet, Zen-like meticulousness before placing them into the French press. She wasn't sure if the man before her would weep any more.

Winston yawned serenely from his pillow by the glass door, at peace with the world and not caring how out of place he looked. While Clarice could tell the villa was shared between the doctor and former instructor as well as a bed, this room clearly belonged to Dr. Lecter. Graham treated everything with a respect Clarice hadn't seen since in foster care with one of the more well behaved kids. Or the kids who pretended they behaved until the foster parents turned their backs.

Graham began to pour the nearly boiling rosewater into the press.

"Dissociative amnesia," She found herself saying.

"Hrm?" He looked up as soon as the kettle was set down and peered at her behind his glasses. Clarice thinks his eyes are blue.

" Dissociative amnesia." She explains, "When shi- something _traumatic_ happens, you forget a lot of things."

"Huh," Even behind the glasses, his gaze was chilling and for a moment, Clarice was suddenly glad he was reluctant to look into her eyes. He knew what dissociative amnesia was. Graham had been Dr. Bloom's lover, too. She was filling in space in the air. "Was that anything like the Drumgo shooting? Shit happened there, I think."

A beat passed between them, the morning sunlight did so little to keep her warm. So he knew about that. _Knew_ she was still shaken up over that. She wouldn't allow satisfaction, though. He was gifted and she was goddamn stubborn. Bring it on.

"Very much." Clarice said honestly and caught a tug of an amused smirk on Graham's lips, "I'm not quite sure how I drove home that night.”

"Well. I'm not too curious about that night. The Washington Times and the Tattler were all over that case. I dunno how to describe it but... I'm wondering what happened on the night Hannibal got captured. You do realize Hannibal was injured as well?" A soft warning disguised as a question.

Why on earth did Graham _allow_ her here?

"No. I didn't, I didn't want him _harmed_. It was Mason Verger I wanted dead... and apparently Mr. Verger had a vendetta against Dr. Lecter."

"Yeah. He did a number of Verger, didn't he? We couldn't get anything out of him due to his condition for a few years." Graham hadn't been called upon that investigation, no one had died and the victim wasn't able to communicate until well after Lecter had gone to trial. "Lemme guess, he heard about your situation with Hannibal from three years ago, right? Only person who'd have some idea how to find him besides me. I'm either dead or on the run with him." The grin is so sharp.

"He... indicated that over Skpying with him. Just outside of his home, I was meeting with his sister, Margot Verger. I... was very unaware of Mr. Verger's past records at the time. And that was nearly five months ago." Despite all troubling signs of at Muskrat Farms connected to children. "Things... happened.”

“They often do.”

“The short story?” Clarice felt like she was dancing on Graham's wire. “I got shot at, saved the doctor, and I then passed out due to a massive amount of blood loss in my attempt to get to Verger. It's... fairly fuzzy after that. I just remembered we were supposed to head to Brazil once we got to Mexico... So, South America."

"South America to _South-er_ America, then?"

" -- don't be a smart-ass, Mexico is apart of North America, I'm still right." She scolded, mildly surprised at Graham's smile, beautiful and white and full of sharp teeth, but it was a smile. But it was fleeting, "What's today?"

"The Eighth."

"... so it's... Been little over a week since all of this went down. God, whatever he gave me for the pain was a complete-" She paused and felt his gaze on her, quietly searching, silently judgmental. "I was _shot_ at and when I woke up it hurt like a bitch. What he gave me stopped the pain."

"You trusted him?" Was Graham more upset with her or with Dr. Lecter?

"I **do**." She's _shocked_ at her answer, "On many things. Giving me drugs shouldn't be one. I memorized his case profile. I memorized _yours_." The ghost of Abigail Hobbs, though she still breathes, floats between them. "But I trust him. I... _know_ when he lies." It's silent then as they waited for the coffee to brew; it's served in an elegant glass coffee cup and when she asks for cream, Graham does his best not to roll his eyes. She's not an empath, but she knows someone who has become a coffee snob.

"D'you mind if I take this outside? I haven't... had a true moment to myself _awake_ since arriving at Muskrat Farms." She needed to escape from Graham, she needed to think what the doctor wanted from her or what happened between the First and the Fourth. She wasn't going to tell Graham she had been somewhat aware on the Fourth, aware enough to be given the ultimatum of going with Lecter or staying to face 'justice'.

She wasn't very keen on justice was dealt by the FBI right now.

Graham is looked down into his own coffee cup - black - and took a long sip before he nodded. They both know she wouldn't escape, she was still too injured. She gave him a worn smile and she began to turn around with the intention of leaving the kitchen to the inviting patio outside.

"Agent Starling?"

She turned, head cocked; the tone of his voice had changed. Softer and warmer.

His quiet contemplating look seemed almost genuine. Perhaps it really was. "For what it's worth... I'm so sorry for all of this."

Her smile is _tried_ as she bows her head, she can't offer a hand to shake. The left one hurts and the right one has her coffee. "Call me Clarice. I'm not an agent anymore."

"Call me Will."


	2. Deipnon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will isn't too sure what his life's become with this new addition. Assurances only last for so long from Hannibal despite Will's desperation for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Hannibal spoiler warnings. You've been warned. Be prepared for Dark and Broken Will in one wondrous package.

For the first time in four years Will Graham allowed himself to feel genuine _empathy_ with a stranger in his life. He supposed the occasional called for it because it was one of those rare times that _true_ empathy - a connection between human beings who have _personally_ gone through similar stimuli - should and could be forged between them. Broken upon rocks of life, taken up by the arms of the demon that crashed them upon the shore, and remade and brought into true sense. Will further along than Clarice Starling is, and Will wasn't entirely sure if she was as broken as Hannibal claimed she was, but he knows how the story will go.

She will be. And he doesn't like the idea. Part pity. Part jealousy.

_So much jealousy_.

Will knew he would eventually meet Starling in some form or another. Knowing his lover, 'some form or another' wasn't that figurative; perhaps a genuine trophy such as her hands, tongue, or perhaps a lock of her hair. She had _beautiful_ hair. Perhaps Starling would believe herself to be someone else or she'd be lobotomized. The chance of meeting her in the flesh seemed like the slimmest chance. But he knew he would meet her.

Will knew this since he read the blog in that little cafe in Sao Paulo with bandages on his face and Hannibal reading over his shoulder, fingers in Will's hair. The fact she remained alive and untouched by Hannibal's knife meant that _somehow_ Clarice Starling had wormed her way beyond how Hannibal saw most people.

However, so very little was said about her. More was seen than said. Glances at news articles online about her career's progress that drew Hannibal's attention away for scant moments and sharped emotions that Will thought were reserved for him. Admiration of mind, admiration of form. Will refused to be jealous of a ghost; there were more troubling things to deal with.

Mostly his alcoholism. Mostly being reshaped.

Emotions had been raw and opened and he couldn't focus on getting his mind back together, much less trying to glue the pieces of his relationship with Molly who suffered far too much in their short relationship and managed to see him through long enough for him to function in normal society. She taken Billy and returned to Oregon while Will drove up to Virginia one last time to see Jack.

Jack had saved Winston, perhaps a last gift. Perhaps as a gesture to urge Will to return to the FBI for good. It was the last time Will had seen Jack.

Alcohol was something of a savior after Dolarhyde.

Will had always been a light drinker for most of his life. Two fingers of whiskey was a daily thing, picked up in the heart of New Orleans when the Homicide department got to be too much. Hannibal encouraged him to drink wine before the messy break up though that had been an attempt to shape Will. Alana and Molly both had a supreme fondness for beer. Funny those who he loved or needed in life had paved the way by accident to his answer.

Will then returned to Florida and emotions were still so painfully raw.

Part of his empathy came from social signals. He picked them up all too well. Alcohol made reading social signals _harder_ for most people and made the world tolerable for Will Graham. Sure, everything was shot to hell. His job, his home, all the dogs save for stubborn old Winston who sat on docks and outside of bars waiting for his teetering master to come outside – but there was sanity in the numbness.

So will spent the year fixing boats, selling boat parts and sometimes -- not very often -- would man tourist and fishing boats for nearly free that could be arranged through a website. Anything to keep gas in the car, enough food to live on for him and Winston, and to keep it all _out_.

Will had been too buzzed to even recognize Hannibal when he showed up on the dock that day. Though, to be fair, Will hadn't seen Hannibal look so terrible in his life; three month old beard and tanned far too darkly to be natural. Unrecognizable in how he moved, how he looked, but not his voice.

Never his voice.

"Will," The aching velvet rumble. It was the only word said that left Will Graham breathless. There had been a time when Will would have panicked but everything was so dull, so _dead_ , he had only looked at Hannibal with empty eyes and waited for the blade to finish what the doctor had started.

A blade in his stomach? His face? Or would Hannibal cut out his heart and leave him on the shore line?

He did not expect smooth hands to grab his shoulder and Hannibal to murmur, "What have you done to yourself?"

(Never mind, it had been Hannibal that ruined him, Will was only nursing the wounds.)

Will did not expect to be lead away from the dock. He did not expect to be lead into a rented car with a leashed Winston curled up in the back seat. Will never expected he'd be lead away down the coast of Brazil. Will waited for the knife the entire time. Even four months later he waited for the knife during hungry kisses and brutally reclaiming sex that Will welcomed.

Hannibal had found a broken man, but this broken man that belonged to _him_. The wounds had been exchanged and all was settled between them; the life that Will created was never meant to last and Will knew leaving with the man that broke him was so unwise.

But what else did have but the bottle and memories of everyone who had broken him and turned their gaze in shame and guilt? He allowed himself to be gathered up and be reshaped, so desperate to feel closer to whole.

Eventually, Will began to stop waiting for the knife and simply _absorbed_.

Reshaping was never boring. Even before then, Will Graham was never boring to Hannibal Lecter; Will Graham made Hannibal Lecter frightfully human.

Will willingly twined into Hannibal's empathy; so alien, so otherworldly and so convenient to _use_ when dealing with the world at large. It is empowering to know the emotions that leak from others and to drive into the primal center of the core that no longer affected you unless you choose it. It's better than the booze Will had used in the Keys to keep his sanity.

Hannibal Lecter made Will Graham just a little less human – and Will welcomed that now. Trying to be a normal human failed spectacularly.

Will doesn't regret what he did to Amelia Barnes. Of course she thought she married a Jonathan Harris two years ago. A once-handsome younger man, shy, sweet and more for company than for a lover. A perfect catch for twilight years. Once upon a time, Will would have blamed Lecter for the words he spoke to Ms. Barnes ears during the aching evenings, reminding her of her late husband. Reminding her of the lost children. Of infidelity and regrets.

But Hannibal allowed his lover to fly on his own as he dealt with loose ends of his old identity in France. And so Will did. Amelia Barnes took her life nearly six months after her marriage to Jonathan Harris, who gained the remains of her fortune and beautiful home.

Because Will Graham knew exactly what to say to break an old woman.

Will could pry Starling open now, find her beating heart and discover it's rhythm and reason. He can do that _easily_ now. He's nearly as good as Hannibal Lecter now, because Will is so seemingly harmless and the scars give him that extra touch of vulnerability. He's more able tongued now, he doesn't _fear_ most people now, and doesn't fear losing himself.

He still hates looking into another person's eyes. He still wears glasses because of it.

Will could dig into Starling's cauliflower scar that she tries to hide under the thick red hair, tweak and twine of the guilt of what she's committed for self defense. He could do the same to her as he did to his late wife. If circumstances allowed it, he _should_ though he hasn't made up his mind what he thought about Starling, save for knowing the possibility of sharing Hannibal with her.

And that ought to be enough to watch that lovely face twist in sorrow and to see bright eyes caught with tears.

But unlike Barnes, Hannibal loves Starling in his way.

The word 'love' is a strange word for Hannibal. Emotions can be felt. Hannibal aches for Clarice Starling, the man obsesses over Clarice Starling, the man _covets_ Clarice Starling. And Will's jealousy is a strange thing because so much of it _mirrors_ Hannibal's feelings for him. Just as strong and overwhelming and alien. Hannibal loves _him_ in that same twisted way. Hannibal loves him enough to put on the human-veil. Hannibal loves him enough to lock the wine and brandy away. Though using 'love' regards to Hannibal must be taken with a grain of salt

Ultimately, what Hannibal feels for them isn't what humans consider love; but the consuming passion Hannibal has for _them_ can be addictive. >

_Is_ addictive.

But Hannibal doesn't love Will enough to forgive him if he killed Clarice and Hannibal doesn't love Clarice enough to forgive her if she killed Will.

That knowledge ultimately prevented Will Graham from acting on impulse to break Starling.

Will sighed for a moment, his hand absently caressed Winston’s head. He disliked the uncertainty what she brought, exposing emotion sharp and raw within him. But that is due to circumstances.

The dog gently licked Will's hand before he cocked his head, looking up at Will with bright chestnut eyes. The man smiled faintly at his beloved pet and then took one more sip of coffee before he began to make breakfast. Activity would help his troubled mind even if it was earlier than he's used to.

He had fallen into the habit of getting up later in the day, between eight and ten. It's a luxury that's become habit, save for getting up around 6:30am to take care of Winston. Today was special. Today Will hadn't planned on talking to Clarice Starling, but when he found her up and sober, he couldn't pass the chance.

After all, it was destined for him to meet her - he's unsure what to think of her besides that she knows far too much about _him_.

Jack _must_ of told her things. She hadn't looked at his eyes and acted as if he wasn't breaking a cardinal rule in western communication and kept her emotions in check. Will wouldn't think so highly of himself that her cocoon was constructed for him and it still had painful flaws. The sharp pang of fear, the soft uncertainty for her feelings and desire for Hannibal that she constantly fights, the boiling rage at herself for failing, the guilt she had in impressing upon Will.

The shame she is at his door and can give so few answers he seeks. She's... not like... anyone Will knows. But he wishes that she was like someone Hannibal knew, so he could find an answer this this problem.

Will poured himself another cup of coffee and the extra was poured into a thermos with a cap screwed on tightly. French pressed coffee does poorly sitting out and he suspected the usually late rising doctor will make his own coffee.

Still, it's the thought that counted.

First to feed Winston. Will fetched the fresh _pork_ and carrots for the dog and set it near the pillow.

As he listened to Winston eat, Will set about finding the packaged muesli and yogurt, another habit he's fallen into the last month without his lover around. Cold breakfast. Will was far too sleepy in the mornings to cook breakfast; not to mention he's less skilled. Simple breakfasts make due.

It's after Will sets out a bowl and spoon that he heard the footsteps echo.

So many steps this morning, Will realized, far too many.

He knew the pattern of those steps. Light, graceful, and meant to carry someone sharp and lean. Footsteps that were meant to be heard, because Hannibal was very aware of presence in this strange state of being half dressed in his human-veil. The house was redesigned with this in mind, with sense of color and appeal, with sense of sound and smell.

The colors are much warmer than Hannibal's old home in Baltimore, much brighter than Will's home in Vienna. The tiles echo and creates harmonics in the house around them. The rooms are high walled and sunny save the hallways. The house was selected for that purpose.

The neighborhood villa resides in was relatively new in comparison to some buildings on Zalmica, but old in the flurry of construction when British retirees and idle rich found the isle perfect for their needs. The cost hasn't been quite the question when they discovered this place; money was easily gained between Will and Hannibal.

It had been the lack of vacancy; but that problem had been solved.

Winston left the comfort of his pillow to seek attention from Hannibal, the dog's nails sharp on the tile. Love earned by bribery, love earned by following his master's adoration. The steps pause for Winston and the smoke murmur of affection echoes in the kitchen. However, Will doesn't look up.

Hannibal does not use the French Press. Rather, he uses a siphon coffee brewer; he has always taken early morning hours better than Will. The siphon brewing is more like alchemy in Will's eyes and far too complicated in the mornings though he often loved the results. More often than not Hannibal is awake long before Will is, leaving that side of the bed cool in the mornings on the nights they spend together.

Hannibal discovered the coffee that is already ground and there is silence between them. The silence is strange, strained, and surreal.

The coffee smells rich and deep, smoky and calm.

It's not until he hears the footsteps settled by his side that he finally looked at the older man. His hair is combed back and still damp and while the jet hair dye will eventually fade it looked far too dark on Hannibal. Will was used to the ash and silver, sometimes the strain of chestnut. Black doesn't quite suit Hannibal's age now. But it will fade away, Will told himself. The pressed long sleeved crimson shirt is achingly familiar with it's sleeves rolled up, and paired with dark navy slacks and expensive loafers.

Of course Hannibal would be dressed impeccably before 7:00 AM, while Will barely remembered to throw on clothes and their guest has oversized silk pajamas. The pajamas Starling wore were Hannibal's and somehow that idea amuses Will despite the strained emotions. Starling is not a short woman; she's just an inch shorter than he is, two inches shorter than Hannibal.

But the amusement dies quickly as he studied the other man's injuries.

Will's thumb reached up to gently touch the edge of undamaged skin. A burn mark, only first degree and it's more bruise than burn. It paled in comparison to the second degree burns on Hannibal's pectorals, close to the nipple. Will's thumb ghosted along high cheek bone and sculpted edge to jawline.

The silence grew warmer and Hannibal raised his hand to grip Will's shoulder. Warm touch, subtle in it's strength and Hannibal bent his head and leaned forward. Lips pressed against Will's pulse and nose along jaw. Hannibal inhaled deeply and for a moment he luxuriated.

Will's eyes closed, the emotion and motion so very familiar. He wasn't greeted like this yesterday nor the night his lover arrived home due to exhaustion and injuries; Hannibal might be defying his age in recent years, but he's not as young as he used to be. Neither was Will Graham.

Will didn't want to lose this moment; but he must. It was what they were.

"You told me she wasn't going to be like Abigail."

Hannibal's exhaled slowly as he lifted his head from the crook of Will's neck, too-dark eyes curious and narrowed at the comment but not terribly surprised. Though, Will is not quite sure now when Hannibal is emoting or truly meant it. In some ways it's a luxury. Hannibal Lecter is one of the few people whose eyes Will _wants_ to look into. "Do you think she is?"

"She candidly told me you drugged her up on the way here and you've been gone for over a month. That's giving you a hell of a leeway to cause chaos." Unfair to state this, Will knew. Hannibal had told him about the drugs. He just didn't think it would be so _much_.

"I believe she was aware of my presence in the States during the recent weeks," Hannibal stepped away from Will, the soft scent of the cologne he wore and the fine soap became memory in Will's mind, "I was ridiculously inept in Italy after sending her that letter; enough to leave a pattern. She snatched quickly upon it and kept her eyes peeled for me. However, we only interacted face to face at Muskrat Farm; she bleeding from a ballistic wound while cutting me down from Verger's _charming_ set up."

"Yeah, she mentioned something about and didn't give me the full story. I could have put more pressure on her but this is officially Day One of knowing each other, I'd rather not it end in a hot mess." He paused to consider the notion and dismissed it for a later time, "It's just from what little you told me about her, she'd sooner haul you to jail than free you."

"I'm... mildly surprised myself that she would save me with little to no intention on capturing me," Another sip of his coffee, his eyes turned to the expansive windows as he searched the skyline, to the patio. "After all, I broke the promise never to call upon her. I suspect Verger's intentions for me played a small part in her sudden departure in protocol."

Will refused to follow the dark maroon gaze. "Do you think she got the copy of the transcripts between you and Verger?"

Hannibal considered a moment, "No. No, she didn't. She didn't receive any of the communication I attempted to send after that first letter. I very much doubt Jack wanted to let Clarice know her sponsor was a convicted child molester. She'd give up the chase if she had a inkling before I was captured. Clarice came to the conclusion on her own, I believe. She was very distraught when she woke up from her injuries." An elegant shrug, "I'm unsure how many she gunned down outside of the barn we were located, but I know of two she shot within the barn. I believe her kill count is now... perhaps ten? Perhaps she was distraught about that."

"If she did receive them then she doesn't remember." Will pointed out and suddenly found his breakfast fascinating. "She told me she had amnesia. Short term amnesia. I know hard psychology isn't my thing, criminology and forensics just touches on it so I really don't know but... I really _think_ she doesn't remember much this past week because she was drugged."

"Mmm." Was the quiet agreement as Hannibal sipped his coffee, "And thus you bring the subject to Abigail. You haven't answered me if you think she's like Abigail."

"I don't know anything about her, Hannibal. I didn't want to _know_ a thing about her. I don't even know if I like her."

"But you wish for her to be like Abigail."

"Just enough. It would make all of this... _easier_ You _do_ have patterns, Hannibal, _especially_ with women. She's beautiful, I'll give her that but I don't-" Will felt his shoulders sag as he studied the patio. He could see her outside, sitting on a reclined chair, back turned to the villa, "Is she going to be another Alana?"

And there's a long pause between them. Memories of Alana used between them. Memories when Will was so smitten with her. When Hannibal attempted to court her. Memories of Hannibal allowing Will to be in a relationship with Alana. She had been furious when everything had been unveiled. As she had all the right in the world to be.

"Clarice is nothing like Dr. Bloom. You were in love with Alana. I was _not_." There isn't scorn in Hannibal's voice, it's oddly monotonous, like it used to be before Hannibal stabbed Will as he kissed his lips. Before Will's bullet tore into Hannibal's gut, "Clarice Starling would be the woman who drags monsters from the abyss on her own rather than question those another has captured." There’s a pause and a curl of a smile. /p >

(Hannibal Lecter was _always_ the exception.)

Will's gaze fixed into dark eyes, "... she who fights with monsters, Hannibal?"

"Perhaps," The wry smile is given to Will, "She would save monsters, too." Hannibal's hand reached out to cup along the square line of Will's jaw, thumb brushed over stubble. "I have thought you would simply tell me what's wrong then to play twenty questions with me. Tell me, Will. We're both too old for this game."

Ice goes through Will's veins, "I think I made my opinion of this idea really well known about a month ago. Considering what you were asking for I was a fucking _saint_." Will voice rose for a moment, a growing trill in his vocal cords. A habit he struggled with when he became angry, and he took a breath, "I'm _jealous_."

The doctor closed what little distance remained, his hand rested softly on Will's hip and Will could feel the heat within the touch, the strength held back. Dark eyes searched his as the other hand caressed Will's jaw. "And you've come to believe that you're now less in my eyes?"

There's a hot knot in Will's stomach, a flutter in his heart. Hannibal's face so unreadable.

" _Yes_." Will found his hands in Hannibal's hair, fingers tight. "Don't give me your pity; not one fucking shred of it. I need to know, Hannibal. Have I become _less_ to you?"

" _Will_." Came the quiet murmur and the bent of Hannibal's head. Even though Will expected the kiss, Will relished it. Relished the brutality of it, the impossibility of breath, of arm tight and strong around his waist. Lips are bruised when the kiss is finished and Will struggled for breath, "There can _never_ be another you."

(Clarice Starling will never be Will Graham.)

The next few weeks will be hard, but not impossible. It's what Will suffers for his addiction and his sanity.

It's so much better than what he used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zalamica is a fictional island based on Salamina, an island found in GreeceThere aren't many British retirees in Salamina – it's mostly a resort island and sadly I've not been there so hopefully I won't offend any greek readers. I'm pretty aware that one week isn't quite a lot of time to cover tracks, but let's throw TV!Hannibal's teleporting powers in this, yes?


	3. Epithorpia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enraptured is what he is; but how broken is Clarice? Hannibal surveys the damage done to Clarice before he decides if she's worth keeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suspect while this is my last chapter, it's probably not he last dealing with this particular verse. I have the need to write a few things and explore, but usually long well thought stories are not my forte. I much prefer drabbles and one shots. This a bit heavy on H/C, but please give the good doctor credit, he's not seen Clarice in three years? 
> 
> Thanks to Lizzen for inspiring me for writing this with her prompt. :)

She always had a distinct fragrance, Hannibal muses.

 

He could recall the first time he caught her scent layered under the cheap but pleasant perfume: Warmth and sunshine and mellow sweetness. Though it lacks the tartness of the fruit itself; he always associates her with oranges. Her faded memory given through a strained voice and pirarie even eyes of a dead father gave the association it's color-smell.

 

The generic perfume, however, had a thick layer and he's reminded of a petite woman with raven curls. The business clothes were generic and poorly tailored compared to an ambitious blonde with expressive eyes. The sweet drawl reminds him of a man he's manipulated, adored, _hated_ and longed for.

 

All in a lovely package of long bones and large clear eyes. Just for _him_. Oh _Jack_. You shouldn't have.

 

Hannibal had dismissed her as Jack's cheap gimmick, Jack's attempt to be _sly_. Too many things myriad on this girl. He cut into the little would-be-agent and while she attempted to cut back, she didn't make him bleed.

 

It had been amusing, watching those clear eyes shimmer with failure, those lovely lips purse - but she wasn't enough to keep him entertained. He sent Starling back to Jack and listened to cheap shoes clopping and relatively unharmed.

 

She was, for all intents, very polite.

 

And then the clopping had stopped and the bitter smell of her anger and the repugnant smell of Miggs' semen echoed with her sharp gasp. And Hannibal waited with baited breath as another part of him _raged_ at Miggs' discourtesy.

 

She did not cry. Clarice Starling merely wiped herself off and would not cry; Miggs' death was Lecter's mea culpa as it was a punishment for his rudeness to Ms. Starling. Hannibal had dismissed something wondrous.

 

He never thought she'd be on par with his Will until she came soggy, but triumphant, solving his clue and all but kneeling at his feet for wisdom. She was something else all together; and she would haunt him. He had the luxury of proximity with Will, he only could read her in scant moments hidden in homespun iron.

 

Hannibal Lecter was never enchanted enough to give up his freedom for her when the occasion arose. No one had that power over him.

 

But Clarice made him a slave to his whimsy, even years later, even with Will. A toy should have lost its charm by the first year when tossed away. Even one hardly used should easily be forgotten.

 

Would it be the same, he wondered, if he had his Clarice but couldn't find his Will?

 

(Same tale, different reason. He wants a matching pair.)

 

Hannibal finds the former agent in the patio sitting under the branches of a persimmon tree with the fruits not quite ripe. There is a our taint in the air that corrupts the gentle smell of the brine and mid-autumn scrub flowers that smell bittersweet before season's end. The visual is pleasing, however. The variance of orange and sea blue makes a lovely contrast, a memory worth saving when he's become restless for color in the winter and the skies are gray and remind him too much of his prison.

 

He hadn't been in his cells all that long but it effects Hannibal profoundly.

 

Still, despite the smell, the patio is one of his favorite spots in the home Will's secured and Hannibal's other assets maintain. It was here that a moment of passion that brought him to this moment.

 

Will had sprawled out to soak the sun through green leaves and blossoms, his lean long body had been completely relaxed and completely tanned. There had been a smile on Will's face when Hannibal allowed his footsteps to echo on the patio, and Hannibal remembered the taste of the languid but hungry kiss. Hunger overwhelming a dance of pain between he and Will, of Will's manipulation and Hannibal's ultimate failure to break him.

 

Life and time did. Hannibal swept in to pick up pieces.

 

This existence had been Will's reward for suffering for over 40 years, his boy needs to rest.

 

(Hannibal had all the intention of letting Will use his weapon on others in the near future, though. Will would become restless in the coming weeks. Will would resent Clarice, of course, he'd have to take it out on someone. Hannibal rather it wasn't their guest. Will won't understand for weeks - if not months - that Clarice is almost just as meant for Will, too.)

 

Oh, the dismay when Hannibal asked if could bring Clarice here when they were done. The dismay that radiated as their bodies cooled from the rush of sex.

 

But Will had said yes, because he needed Hannibal. And over a month ago, Hannibal went to retrieve Clarice.

 

He breathes in her fragrance.

 

It amuses him that he finds her on the same chair he had taken Will; Clarice stiff and pale and utterly unaware what has transpired on it during the spring months. Those months had been cruel to her and it shows in her appearance. Deep shadows play under her light eyes and her skin paleness is very unhealthy though the pallor was a recent occurrence.

 

Her injuries had resulted in Class II Hemorrhage, nearly verging on Class III. It was a risk to take her on such a sententious trip and she is such a stubborn woman to fight what her body demands.

 

Aged and childish; worn and lovely.

 

The image of her has recently been hung in the annals of his mind; her sprawled on rust colored dirt, bleeding profusely as the ketamine coursed through her system, the image etched with the smoke and sour smell of gun powder. He could have taken her boots to wear (those _beautiful_ duck feet of hers) and left her to die, pale eyes glazed and seeing nothing as the boars devoured her corpse along with Verger's minions. She'd haunt his dreams forever and he'd wonder about the taste of her lips; her bittersweet immortality.

 

But that never had been consideration. Not once.

 

His bare footsteps are soft on the patio tile, cooler than he remembered when he last walked out here little over a month ago. The tiles will become cooler still as the winter creeps over the villa and they'll shelter inside. It's a perfect time for Clarice to recover from recent events, an excellent place to push Will's furthering education and start to mold Clarice, and a safe enough place for Will and Clarice to adapt to each other.

 

(Will of years ago would have liked Clarice, Hannibal thinks. A little sister. The Will of now will despise her if only out of jealousy. But in either existence, desire would haunt Will eventually. Clarice is far too much like Hannibal.)

 

His steps might be soft, but Clarice looks up from her competition.

 

"Doctor Lecter." She murmurs formal as always, forgetting that she was curled against him for the better part of the last few days in various first class passenger seats where her soft breathing and her scent filled his perception rather than the hideous recycled air on airplanes.

 

Though, to be utterly fair to her, the dosage was _unusually_ high.

 

"Clarice." He offers her the medication, "I shouldn't expect you to find you a mess in the hallway later today? Yesterday was incredibly inconvenient to Will."

 

She simply stared into the palm of his hand then looks up at his dark eyes. Her expression is detached and eyes locked upon his. "I don't want it."

 

"You do realize that not only have you lost weight since the incident at Muskrat Farm, but your body has suffered from a ballistic wound that cost you a near _liter_ of blood? Yes, I'm certain I've told you this at least _twice_. Perhaps a third time will be the charm? You've been on Oxycodone for over a week with various antibiotics and various field treatments. Your body is _broken_ , Clarice. It was strong enough to get you here and that must be applauded but it's not strong enough to deal with potential withdraw symptoms as it would have been a little over a week ago. It's a _smaller_ dosage than what you've had on the airplane, what you had yesterday, and tomorrow it will be even smaller. You'll be off of them completely by the end of the week."

 

Clarice breathed out slowly, breathed in slowly, her eyes close before offering a cupped hand to Hannibal for the Oxycodone. She swallows it along with the coffee before leaning back on the chair, her eyes sharp upon him. _Studying_ him. Examining him. She's never seen him outside his cage before; the beautiful monster given run in fine fabrics and graceful gestures of freedom.

 

Hannibal simply crosses over to the patio's railing to study her wordlessly in response.

 

He's furious with Verger, furious with Crawford, they dug their fingers into that crack before he could and he doesn't know what he's left with.

 

Pity for her that he _must_ find out. Pity for her this is a test. It would be a shame to see if she fails.

 

"You never did quite master that anger, did you Clarice?" He decided not to bring up the lambs.

 

"No." She said carefully, eyes like steel, "I can't say that I have."

 

Still, she was not nearly the mess Will was when Hannibal found him. But then Will had a year to his own devices. Clarice was swept up within hours after her breakdown. When she's fully sober, he'll have to keep close watch on her. "Tell me what's turning in that mind of yours."

 

"Senator Martin sent me a Christmas Card and Catherine’s finally in the workforce. You heard everything worth while three years ago and you even have your beach view." She gestured to the west, eyes not leaving him.

 

"Ah, but I've not seen _you_ in three years, three _very_ unkind years."

 

"Not really. You'll be glad to know the last few months were pretty much the worst." There's _heat_ in her eyes, she's _angry_ , he had a magnificent three years. Save for Italy. That had been a rather a bothersome ordeal save for the fact it lead her to him.

 

"One supposes, though the last time I had the pleasure of conversation with you, your skin was smooth and clear save the severe bags under your eyes. Three years and three highly visible scars for each of those years appears on your body. Not quite 30, are you?"

 

"28." She'll be 29 in December. Twenty one years between them. He could be her father.

 

"Well, I ought not to judge you on your current appearance. A large deal of that is my doing to improve your chance of survival." Still judged for her appearance rather than her mind, as it often happens to poor white trash. She's furious he's doing the same. Hannibal _smiles_ , "Though truth be told, I suspect you know where you're at if you give it a touch of thought."

 

"Graham told me it's Europe. Somewhere. Dam-- I wouldn't know where. I've only been to Spain."

 

Now who on Earth took her to Spain? Something to inquire another time.

 

"Give it a try. You've had books, surely you've been reading since the last we spoke. Compare it to what you've known. Tell me about your current whereabouts."

 

Clarice paused to think and it takes a while. She's not like Will in these regards, she can't soak up other people and tell all she needs from them. But she's resourceful and scrapes at leftovers. The bodies, the location, everything - why she was always so crumpled, doing the things that no one else wanted. It was why she cared for things that no one else wanted. A brilliance tempered by compassion.

 

(He needs to twist that compassion around, just like he did with his Will.)

 

"We're on a Western shoreline and it's mid fall. But we're not in the states. There's gonna be another manhunt no matter who they pin it to. Besides, it doesn't feel... so much like the East Coast, anyway. The air's not thick like a cloak... it's dry but not so much to make a desert. Mediterranean. It's a Mediterranean climate," Her lips press together as she considers. "You're too much of a lover of the _Western European_ culture to tolerate Slavic countries, aren't you?"

 

"Astute." Oh, she has _no_ idea; he being a mix of Slavic and Italian stock. Or perhaps she does? He wants no memory of his times in the then Soviet Union. "No more hints Officer Starling, you've seen enough. Be _clever_."

 

The breeze has brought echoes of the birds singing while it stirs his hair and makes Clarice's dance.

 

"Greece." She finally says, meeting his eyes for confirmation.

 

He _grins_. "Very astute. Why would you think that?"

 

"It's close enough to culture that _you_ enjoy ... it's a climate that Graham could enjoy ... he's from Louisiana, right? He was a boat man... and... due the economic instability it was easy to migrate here three years ago with all that chaos. I know there are a few French islands and Italian ones, but... you can't go there now. Italy's looking for you and France is nearly cut off because you're a citizen. The woman either you or Graham married was British judging by the books in the guestroom I'm in. They're all in English, mostly romance novels, travel guides, and popular fiction and they're all _old_. She couldn't have been any younger than 60 and previously married to someone very wealthy. Not to someone from Greece because her marrying an non-Greece citizen with her late husband's Greek wealth could bring too much attention. I know you or Graham married for the house because the room I'm in doesn't suit your tastes. It's the only place you or Graham haven't bothered to change that I've seen."

 

He stares at her from across the patio, almost Sphinx like in his regard. "You've earned yourself a question."

 

" _I'm_ not a Agent anymore. How did you kill her? The previous owner of this house."

 

"Is that what you truly want to know? Don't you _wonder_ why you're still alive? I could have left you on that barn floor to bleed out while listening to those screaming boars. Special Agent Starling, Orphan Maker, Death Angel. All those titles the Tattler gives you; wouldn't they have such _fun_ in finding out your body was among the slaughtered?" He detaches himself from the railing and began to stalk towards her. "Do you know many agents have I killed or attempted to kill, Clarice? I doubt Jack told you all of them. You simply could have been another mark; another dead girl. Yet, here you are. Alive and well and at such _risk_ to myself and my lover; I not only do I spare you, but save you. Think about that, Clarice. Think about that, and ask your question."

 

The anguish is succulent across her face, but this is not for pleasure. Hannibal _needs_ to know how she'll react. _Needs_. But then the expression hardens as her wheels turns, "How did _Graham_ kill his wife?"

 

He doesn't answer, not at first. He looms large over her and those innocent eyes watched him, the anger burning and the apprehension bubbling under the surface. One cannot be courageous if one doesn't know fear; and brave Clarice knew fear.

 

" _Clever_ girl." He murmurs the praise softly, affectionately. " _My_ clever girl. Will never touched the Late Mrs. Graham, but for _some_ reason my dear boy has become significantly jaded with humanity. As if he realized he's suffered far too much in life pretending he is like one of them. Humanity broke his heart in the end, you know.

 

"He knew her guilt, her fears, her _shames_ , and her sorrows, Clarice. And he made sure she could remember each one until it had to stop." Hannibal's hands close over Clarice's. "He won't harm you, you know. And you won't harm him."

 

"I am _fucking offended_ that you'd think I'd harm Mr. Graham for _any_ reason. He's my _host_." Her eyes were hard, expression just as hard, but it lasts only a few moments. She's been shot, the slug still in arm, she's been stabbed by a hypodermic needle in the back, she's been drugged on opiates for the last week, and she's been hauled half way across the world. Clarice Starling is tried and it's so clearly etched on her features. She's no longer being polite and her mind can only do so much -- but she's proven that his original belief was correct. His world is far the more interesting with her in it.

 

"I'm only confirming what I believe. You keep surprising me, you realize." His hands lift from hers, only pausing to feed his whimsy. Carefully, so carefully, he brushes a stray lock of hair from her eyes that widen as she realizes _why_ Will would harm her; _jealousy_. "You need to rest and you need to eat."

 

Her face manages to hide expression, but her eyes betray the glint of fear, "I don't suppose I can decline that offer, can I?" 

 

"Something of a Morton's Fork for you, isn't it?" He gently touches he gunpowder scar, smiles at the quick pulse catching in her throat, "You enjoyed my omelets in the States and I'm much better stocked."

 

"Believe that's the problem, Dr. Lecter." Her eyes close, though worn she's made a quick lesson. She is choosing her battles. "I like garden omelets."

 

"Very well," He _clucks_ at this before he finally steps away, allowing her personal space back, "There's only so much protein in that."

 

Clarice's eyes shut only for a moment before she nods - too tried to fight anymore today. Slowly she rises from the deck chair though she doesn't ask for help, and Hannibal watches her silently return to the villa. She does surprise him, her shining awareness and lucidity. It's something he hasn't had since unveiled and he _relishes_ it.

 

She's precious to him, just as precious as his Will. But for all her shining awareness, he knows she won't consider running away or contacting the authorities. For all her life, Clarice Starling has been discarded by those she given her loyalty to. Finally, _finally_ , it's been returned in a time when she doesn't know _what_ she is.

 

Unlike Will, she knows hard and well who she is. But _what_ is an important part of identity. And _that's_ what's shattered.

 

How she will fit into this life as he molds her to her potential will remain to be seen, it may not end well. But it should be entertaining, at the least.

**Author's Note:**

> In Hannibal, Clarice is very aware of Mason Verger's sadism and past history of being a child molester. In this she isn't aware of Verger's past in regards to molesting children until later. The rest of the events of the novels happened save for the Clarice and Hannibal interaction in the Long Spoon.


End file.
